


Soap

by AlleiraDayne



Series: Instead of Going to Bed DAI Verse [14]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cullen Rutherford Fluff, F/M, Fluff, I Was Drunk When I Wrote This, Smutty, Sweet Cullen Rutherford
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-12-02 13:48:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11510685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlleiraDayne/pseuds/AlleiraDayne
Summary: Amallia returns from a long excursion in the Hinterlands.





	Soap

**Author's Note:**

> From 7/14/2017's DA Drunk Writing Circle, I was prompted by @thevikingwoman with "the creak of leather" from a Sensory Prompt list.

Shadows stretched across the yard like the reaching fingers of an ominous spirit grasping through the Veil. Behind the towering mountains the sun descended, twilight shades of blue and purple and pink slashing the sky with their vibrant hues. It had rained while she was away, the damp aroma of timber and stone filling her nose as Amallia passed through the portcullis and into the courtyard of Skyhold.

Exhausted, she dismounted from her hart, grasping the reins by the beast’s chin and leading her to the stables. Her graceful gate, long and light, followed her without question, eager as she was to be home.

_Home_.

Odd to think of the abandoned fortress in such a way, but the castle had grown on her, charming and mysterious in its secrets, in its solitude.

_Safe and solid_.

Maker, it had to be a coincidence. As she neared the stables, voices echoed into the yard, a soft timbre of casual conversation finding her ears. Leading the hart to her stall, she spotted Commander Cullen and Master Dennet two stalls over, admiring a Fereldan mare.

“Strong shoulders, tall and lean,” she heard Cullen comment. “And I know her gate, a long stride for her long legs.”

Master Dennet grunted, agreeing. “She has an impressive frame. Strong as any warhorse I’ve known.”

Opening the gate, Amallia drew the hart into her stall and began removing her tack. As she worked, she chanced a look across the stalls to see what it was the two men were doing, curiosity piqued.

“I have a feeling,” Cullen began as he stroked the mare’s nose. She nuzzled him, huffing his hands for a morsel. “She’ll be perfect,” he finished.

Master Dennet grunted again with a nod. “She’ll be ready for you in the morning,” he stated as he turned on his heel and left the stall, Cullen remaining with the mare.

Scratching her jaw, Cullen cupped her chin and held her to his chest, his silver breastplate and cowl traded for a plain tunic in the oppressive heat. Though the mountains provided cooler weather, the unrelenting summer sun had scorched their perch since their arrival.

With the reins and bridle removed, Amallia hung them on the hook behind her, then turned to find Cullen staring at her. And, as if caught, he averted his gaze, returning to the mare for a final pat between the ears and a kiss on her long nose. “Until tomorrow,” he muttered as he left her stall, latching it behind him.

She expected him to turn in for the evening, or find a pint in the Herald’s Rest, but instead of either, Cullen headed straight for her stall. Outside, he stopped, resting his forearms on the gate.

“Bears?”

How? How had he known? She’d sent no missives, no ravens. And yet, he knew, read her like an open book. Resigned, she groaned as she began to unbuckle her saddle. “So many bears.”

“You’ll get used to it,” he said with a chuckle, but she didn’t laugh.

Bone-weary, her hands slipped on the strap and she cursed, unrepentant. Maker, but the last thing she wanted to do was brush down the hart after treating her tack. It would be the middle of the night before she found her bed and dawn before she knew an hour of sleep.

“I can … would you like me to help?”

She turned to find Cullen a step into the stall, a worried frown creasing his brow and the gate held open as he hesitated. Maker, what was his game? Did he even know? She’d tried flirting with him in Haven, and that had led to what she thought was a kiss that meant so much more. But then …

Then she’d nearly died.

“Can you just undo the strap?” she asked, abandoning the thought.

Without question, Cullen stepped between her and the hart, and with one swift pull, wrenched the buckle free as though it were nothing. But in that moment, that liminal second, Amallia lingered an eternity. His broad shoulders rolled, flexing with his arms, and the creak of straining leather sang a song so sweet, she could have wept.

The strap fell from his hands, free of the buckle and leather relaxed. “Thank you,” she whispered, breathless and dizzy.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice cracking not unlike the leather she grasped.

“I’m exhausted,” she replied. “The ride back was not easy. And bears.”

“Quite a few bears?” he asked with a smirk.

“Maker’s breath, so many bears,” she repeated as she lifted the saddle and made for the barn.

He took it from her without a word and she let him, glad to be rid of the weight. Following him into the barn, Amallia managed a soft giggle at the thought of more bears, her sanity slipping. But then an appalled gasp rent the calm air and her yellow blade appeared in her hand, summoned by instinct.

“This saddle,” Cullen admonished, ignoring her weapon, “is appalling. When was the last time it was cleaned?”

Confused, her spirit blade shattered in a bright burst of green and gold sparks. “I oil it after every day’s ride.”

“That’s …” Cullen started, looking from the saddle and back to her. “Nobody ever taught you.”

“Taught me what?” she snapped, impatient and irritable in her exhaustion.

He set the saddle on the stand and then retrieved a bucket and a bar of lard from Blackwall’s work bench, then strode from the barn, leaving her with her thoughts.

No, of course no one had taught her how to clean leather. The Circle had seen to that. It was a skill they had omitted from her education. And the only thing that seemed to keep the saddle lustrous was the oil she’d seen Bull use on the handle of his axe. Void take the Circle, she should have known better.

Cullen returned with the bucket full of water and a cloth hanging from a pocket. The lard floated in the water, rings of bubbles floating to the edge in rings. He set the bucket beside the saddle stand and then motioned for her to stand beside him.

“Leather can be cleaned just like any other fabric, expect you don’t rinse,” he explained as he grasped her hand and put the rag in it. “You buff it out with a dry rag.”

For the first time in a fortnight, Amallia reeled at the sensation of her hand in his. Until that moment, she had forgotten his touch, the calloused palms and deft fingers. And in that same moment, Cullen withdrew, a spasm of shock snatching back his hand.

“I’m … I didn’t mean to …”

She dropped the cloth in the bucket, soaking it through and grasping the lard to lather. With a hopeful smile, she asked, “Show me?”

His shoulders eased, tension draining from him with a sigh of relief. Stepping behind her, his arms encircled hers, shadowing her as he instructed. “You can work the soap into the leather in circles, like this,” he started, his hand enveloping hers.

Under their weight, the leather creaked again, forming to the stand. As they worked across the surface, Amallia followed along, his muscles dictating her movement. And then the citrus aroma of the lard filled her nose, drawing a memory from Haven to the forefront of her mind.

“Is this why you smell like oranges?”

His free hand found her hip, pulling her flush against him. “Citrus soap and steel oil,” he replied. “Yes, although I scent my steel oil with–”

“Elderflower and oak moss.”

Continuous circles lathered the soap into the leather as he hummed his agreement, breath hotter than the summer wind on her neck. “You have an excellent sense of smell, Inq– Amallia.”

She opened her mouth to respond but the crackle of stretching leather filled the void as Cullen leaned into her, stretching her arm down the length of the saddle. Words failed her, the press of his entire body engulfing her senses whole.

“You’re good at this,” he commented.

Amallia stuttered, coherent thought a million miles away. “I’m not doing anything.”

The cloth fell to the bucket as he withdrew her hand from the saddle. “Are you sure?” he asked, lathered hand finding the crook of her neck. Icy cold water soothed her scalding skin, runnels trailing down the front of her tunic. “I would argue you’ve done more than you know.”

She grasped the saddle as he pinned her against it, and Amallia thanked the Maker the darkness had sent most in Skyhold to their quarters, that the barn had been abandoned hours ago. How scandalous a story it would be, the Inquisitor and the Commander of her forces? Tongues would wag for  _months_.

The brush of his lips on her ear sent a violent shock of arousal to her core and a whimper burst from her chest, unbidden and desperate for release. She drank from the well that was his embrace, deprived of it for so long she forgot how sweet he tasted. She turned into him, her lips finding his with incessant need and their urgent moans mingled for another verse in their ballad. His tongue, his hands, Maker, the pure  _weight_  of his presence consumed every fiber of her existence, cleansing as the flames of Andraste.

There in the darkness of the stables and hidden by the night’s blessed embrace, they knew each other as they once had so many nights ago. Leather sang its familiar song as she sat upon the supple saddle, a refrain of their love echoed in celebration of their reunion at last.


End file.
